


Never Walk Away (A Man Can Be Kind)

by LiveLaughLoveLarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Christmas Eve, Fireworks, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8969641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLaughLoveLarry/pseuds/LiveLaughLoveLarry
Summary: Louis and Harry have recently ended their three year relationship. But maybe a little holiday magic can bring them back together.
  ~*~*~
“I don’t know why you’re so nice to that louse,” Oli says as the taxi pulls away from the curb.Louis glances back through the window. Harry is still standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching them go. “He’s not a louse,” he says absently.“He hurt you.”“I hurt him,” Louis replies. “And he didn’t mean to. It was inevitable. It’s not his fault. It is what it is.”Oli is silent for a long moment. At last, he sighs. “Someday you’re going to have to stop being afraid.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sildisenchanted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sildisenchanted/gifts).



> This was a whirlwind of speedwriting but I'm quite pleased with the result. Big thanks to my betas as always!! <3
> 
> Title is adapted from Kelly Clarkson's "Piece By Piece" which I didn't realize until after I finished how appropriate it is.

After nearly three months, Louis had thought that he would be over him. He’d thought that he would be okay, that he wouldn’t miss him anymore. That it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

It still hurts. It still hurts like a physical wound, like Harry had taken a part of him when he left and the gaping hole is still oozing, still throbbing like it’s fresh.

Probably infected.

It hurts at night, when he’s alone in the silence and the stillness, no sound of breathing from the pillow beside him, no little snores or muffled nonsense sleeptalking. It hurts when he cooks for himself – or tries, his culinary skills still deplorable, which was why Harry had always done the cooking. It hurts when he does laundry, remembering all the times Harry had worn this shirt, stretched a little too tight over his broad shoulders, or when they’d bought that sweater together. Some of the clothes are even Harry’s, things Louis has never been able to bring himself to give back or throw away. It hurts every time he sees them and yet he craves them, craves that connection to Harry, small as it is. When he’s feeling particularly sorry for himself, he puts on one of Harry’s old band tees and pretends that it still smells like him, pretends that the faint traces of Harry that might still cling to the fibres are even the faintest echo of being held by him.

So. Louis is not over him. Louis is not okay.

And he’s even less okay as he stands frozen in the pasta aisle, watching Harry in the checkout line with a girl he’s never seen before in his life. They’re talking and smiling, and Louis imagines he can hear the sharp cackle of Harry’s laugh over the sound of the scanners.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen Harry since – since. They’ve run into each other a few times – in the street, at a coffee shop, one particularly awkward incident where Louis had gone to see Zayn the same day Harry went to see Liam. It hurt every time.

This is somehow worse.

He supposes he should be happy. Well. Not happy, exactly, but… happy for Harry, anyway. He should want Harry to be okay, want him to heal and move on and have a life, even if it isn’t with him. He should want him to find someone who can be everything he needs, who can give him the things Louis never could. Maybe eventually he’ll get there. But for now…

For now, he just wants to walk up to the pair of them and tell the girl to fuck off to wherever the heck she came from. He wants to get down on his knees in the middle of bloody Tesco’s and beg Harry to give him another chance.

Instead, he forces himself to turn around and walk back down the aisle, pretending like he hadn’t seen them.

He only cries in the produce section for a few minutes. At least there he can blame it on the onions.

~*~*~

Louis is certain this is a terrible idea. He can’t remember why, as he downs his fourth shot in the past hour and his seventh that night, but he’s certain it’s a terrible idea. He remembers telling Oli and Stan as much when they showed up at his flat and announced that they were taking him out for his birthday.

Yet as the tall man runs his fingers along Louis’ arm, as Louis’ eyes trace the gentle bulges of his muscles – well, it seems like a good idea. He’s hot, Louis is horny, what could go wrong?

A momentary flash of light illuminates the crowd, hundreds of bodies tangled together into indistinguishability. And yet he thinks he recognizes one of them, recognizes long hair and sharp brows and clumsy motions.

The light is gone an instant later, but Louis keeps staring at the crowd, searching for something he doesn’t really want to find, isn’t even sure is there.

“Wanna dance?” asks the man. Louis is pretty sure his name is Dave, but it might have been Dale or Darren or something. Louis doesn’t really care. There are more important things to consider – like the sound of the man’s voice, low and rumbling in a way that makes heat curl low in Louis’ stomach.

He shakes his head to clear it. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?” He’d imagined seeing him, must have imagined it because why would he be here, and why now? And what if he is, it isn’t like it matters.

He needs to stop thinking about this.

“Let’s go,” he says, hooking a finger through Dave’s belt loop. He receives a smouldering glance for his trouble, and they move onto the dance floor.

It feels good. Dancing, laughing, screaming along to music he doesn’t know. Feeling the press of Dave’s hips against his, knowing that Dave is up for a good time. It’s easy, it’s uncomplicated, it’s impermanent – it’s perfect. Louis smiles, his eyes hungry as he licks his lips.

“You sure know how to show a guy a good time,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the pounding music.

Dave smiles. “I do what I can,” he says. He ducks his head, pressing his lips to Louis neck. Louis gasps, tilting his head back for better access as he clings to Dave’s shoulders. “Want to make it a little better?” Dave purrs.

“Fuck,” Louis murmurs. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Dave laughs. “Thank you,” he says. “You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Flatterer.”

“Ooh, you’re a feisty one,” Dave teases. “Someone’s got a mouth on him.”

“You love it.”

Dave laughs again. “I do,” he says. “Your mouth is very attractive.”

Before Louis can think, can speak, can move, Dave’s mouth is on his and everything is hot and wet and teeth and tongue. He digs his fingers into Dave’s shoulder, licking deep into Dave’s mouth with a groan. Dave presses back, one hand sliding down Louis chest to press against his crotch.

Louis wants this. He wants to kiss Dave, to fuck him, to wake up pleasantly sore and eat the greasiest food he can find to soothe his hangover. He wants-

And then it all goes wrong. The image feels like it’s burned into his retinas, so many mornings after sex or nights out or nights in; so many evenings after a long day or a fancy dinner or a comically bad movie. Louis wants gentle fingers and soft hands and a smile that dimples. He wants green eyes and long hair and longer limbs.

His stomach clenches and he breaks away from Dave’s mouth, panting as he leans against him.

“Louis?” Dave asks. “Is something wrong?”

His stomach flips again, and he swallows hard. “Excuse me,” he says. “I have to go.” He walks away towards the exit, his pace increasing with each step. By the time he bursts outside he’s nearly running. The cold night air feels good and for a moment he thinks it will be okay, but then another wave of nausea washes over him, and he falls to his knees at the edge of the sidewalk and throws up in the road.

As the acid burns its way up his throat, he feels a sob catch in his chest. Another breaks free, and tears drip from his eyes as he retches.

“Louis?”

The voice comes from behind him. It’s quiet, and Louis’ ears ring in the silence, but he would know that voice anywhere.

“No,” he whispers, heaving again. He coughs and spits. “Please,” he croaks. “Just… go away.”

He doesn’t hear the voice again.

At last, there’s nothing left in his stomach to throw up. He dry heaves once or twice, and then it’s over. He sits back on his heels, glancing around as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. There’s no one in sight. He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed, though he tries not to be.

He isn’t even completely sure he’d ever been there in the first place.

His stomach has finished, but his eyes are still watering, and he wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“Here.”

He jumps, catching himself as he falls, his palms scraping against the rough concrete. Harry stands over him, holding out some napkins and a plastic cup of water.

Louis wants to refuse, but he knows that would just be stupid. He takes the offered items, blowing his nose and then taking a sip of the water to rinse out his mouth. “Thanks,” he says at last.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks quietly.

Louis almost laughs. What an absurd question. “Do I look okay?”

“No,” Harry says, “which is kind of what prompted the question.”

“I’ll live,” Louis sighs. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Louis-”

“Don’t.” He doesn’t want Harry to see him like this, disgusting and broken, especially when Harry is so – not. He doesn’t want to dig that wound open again, not ever, but especially not tonight. He shakes his head. “I’m not your problem anymore, remember?”

“I never said that.”

“Whatever.” He pushes himself to his feet, wobbling slightly. Harry reaches out to steady him but Louis jerks away, though he nearly falls in the process. “Don’t,” he says again. Seeing him is already bad enough, and hearing his voice, but touching him… “Look, I appreciate the water, but just… stay away from me, okay?”

The hurt is plain on Harry’s face, and Louis feels a pang of guilt. He doesn’t actually want to hurt Harry, never wants to hurt him. He opens his mouth, wanting to explain, to say something, but he can’t think what.

“Tommo!”

They both start at the loud voice, turning to see Oli and Stan striding towards them.

“You disappeared on us,” Oli says as they approach. “What were you – oh.”

Louis can see the look on his face shift from cheerful to angry. “No,” he says weakly. “Oli, don’t, it’s not-”

Oli throws one more dirty look at Harry, then brushes past him to Louis. “You look terrible,” he says.

“You’re drunk,” Louis replies.

“He’s right, though,” Stan says. “You do look terrible.”

“I feel a little worse,” Louis mutters mutinously. His stomach has settled down now, at least, but the pleasant buzz that usually comes from being this drunk is more of an angry burning in his veins, and his skin feels like it’s crawling off his bones.

“You used to be able to hold your liquor,” Oli comments.

“What, in uni?” Louis says, laughing in spite of himself. “Mate, hate to tell you this but that was years ago.”

“Two years ago,” Stan replies. “Such a long time.”

Louis shrugs. “I guess I changed.”

He glances over Stan’s shoulder and Harry is standing right there, his hands stuffed in his pockets, head low but _looking_ at Louis in a way he can’t quite read. He turns away as soon as their eyes meet, but Louis sways unsteadily on his feet.

“Um,” he says, grabbing Stan’s arm to steady himself. “Hate to cut my own birthday short, but I should probably go home before I pass out or do something stupid.”

“Stupid like talking to your ex in the alley behind a club where we went to forget him?” Oli says.

Louis sighs. “If you like,” he says. “That’s really not what happened, though. And it’s not his fault.”

“Whatever.” He tucks himself into Louis’ side, wrapping an arm around him. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Stan takes Louis’ other side, and they head for the street. A cab is already waiting, Harry standing at the door.

“Here,” he says as they approach. “I thought you could use this.”

Oli is unimpressed. “We can take care of him,” he says.

Harry takes a step back. “I was just trying to help.”

“You don’t think you’ve helped enough already?”

“Oli, stop it.” Louis’ voice is thinner than he’d like. He pulls away from both of them, half falling into the taxi. “Let’s just go, okay?”

Oli looks like he wants to say no, but after a long moment he sighs and climbs in beside Louis. “I don’t know why you’re so nice to that louse,” he says as the taxi pulls away from the curb.

Louis glances back through the window. Harry is still standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching them go. “He’s not a louse,” he says absently.

Oli tugs Louis’ jacket. “Stop that,” he says, but Louis shrugs him off. Only when the cab rounds a corner and he can no longer see Harry does he turn to face the front, slumping lower into his seat.

“He’s not a louse,” Louis repeats.

“He hurt you.”

“I hurt him,” Louis replies. “And he didn’t mean to. It was inevitable. It’s not his fault. It is what it is.”

Oli is silent for a long moment. At last, he sighs. “Someday you’re going to have to stop being afraid.”

Louis winces. He hadn’t anticipated that particular direction. He’s not drunk enough for that particular direction. “Maybe,” he says at last. “But today is not that day.”

~*~*~

He wakes up to the sound of his phone’s message alert. His head feels like a tiny person in stilettos spent the night running around the inside of his skull. His mouth tastes like what his refrigerator smelled like when he forgot to throw out the milk before he went on vacation. He squints at the clock on his bedside table. 10:30am.

He groans, and lets his head fall back onto the pillows, his brain slowly booting up.

Christmas morning.

What a way to wake up.

He sighs, and pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing as the pounding in his head intensifies. Still, he perseveres, forcing himself to his feet, swaying only slightly. He doesn’t have to be at his mother’s until noon, but he’ll need a shower to feel halfway human again. He picks up his phone as he heads for the bathroom, then pauses.

Oh right.

The message that had woken him.

It’s from Harry.

Louis sits back down on the bed. The message isn’t anything special, just a quick _Hey_ , but it still makes his head spin.

Or maybe that’s just the hangover.

With trembling fingers, he types back, _Hey._

The reply comes only a few seconds later. _You all right? After last night, I mean._

 _No,_ Louis types, then erases it. _I’m fine,_ he types, then erases that too. _Better,_ he sends at last. _Got a hell of a hangover though._

_Drink plenty of water and take some paracetamol._

Louis can’t help but smile. _Always trying to baby me._

There’s a long pause this time, and Louis wonders if that was too much. It’s the first time they’ve texted since… since. But then the typing bubble appears, and he exhales.

 _I guess so._ The bubble comes back. _Louis, I was wondering if we could meet up? Not today, probably, but soon?_

That… was none of the things Louis expected. He’s not going to say no, though. Fuck, even if it’s a terrible mistake, even if it hurts like hell, he wants to see Harry. _Sure,_ he sends back, before he can think better of it. _Why?_

 _I think we should talk through what happened,_ Harry replies, and Louis’ enthusiasm cools slightly. _For closure, you know?_

Louis does know, he thinks.

 _Tomorrow?_ he types. _The Costa’s at Baxter and Logan?_

 _Sounds perfect,_ is Harry’s quick reply. _How’s 1pm?_

_I’ll be there._

His head is swimming as he locks his phone. His stomach heaves, and he barely makes it to the toilet before he throws up, acid burning his throat, nothing in his stomach to get rid of. He kneels by the toilet for a few minutes, the tile floor cold on his feet. At last, he stands up and turns on the shower.

~*~*~

Stan had told him not to go. Oli had threatened to handcuff him to a chair. Calvin had warned him that this was probably a bad idea.

Louis has never been a good listener.

He checks his watch as he rounds the final corner. 12:58pm. Right on time. He starts to look up, but crashes into a solid wall of person before he can. Warm hands grab his shoulder, steadying him.

“Careful,” a familiar voice says. “Sorry, I – oh, it’s you.”

“Harry.” Louis tries to smile at him. “Sorry about that. Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“I’m supposed to be the clumsy one,” Harry says, trying for a joke. Neither of them laugh.

Louis shoves his hands into his pockets. “Shall we?” he asks, tilting his head towards the shop.

Harry coughs. “Right,” he says. “Right, yeah. I could use a cuppa.”

The line is short, since it’s the holiday, and the middle of the afternoon. Harry orders for both of them, paying before Louis can get his wallet out.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Louis says as they wait for their drinks.

Harry shrugs. “I wanted to,” he says. “Happy birthday, I guess.”

Louis flinches slightly, remembering his actual birthday. “Thanks,” he says. “You remembered my order.”

Harry really does laugh at that, softly, his eyes warm. “You’re particular enough about it,” he says. “It’s only been a few months, you think I would forget?”

Louis smiles, his chest aching. “No,” he says. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

The silence stretches between them, just long enough to begin to be uncomfortable.

“Here we are!” The chipper voice of the barista makes them both jump. “Careful, they’re hot.”

Harry recovers first. “Thank you,” he says, taking both drinks. “Happy holidays.”

“Same to you,” the barista says before turning to the next customer.

Harry hands Louis’ drink to him, their fingers brushing as he takes the cup. Louis tries not to show how much the contact… hurts? Excites? Means? He takes a sip from his cup – too hot, his tongue stinging with the burn. He coughs.

“Um. D’you wanna… here, or, like, in the park?”

He’s never claimed to be articulate.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer the park,” Harry says. “It’s beautiful today.”

It’s fucking freezing is what it is, but Louis has never been able to refuse Harry anything. Except for the one thing that matters. But that’s neither here nor there.

“Park’s fine,” he says. “More private anyway.”

Harry says nothing, just nods. The silence hangs in the air between them for a moment, awkward in a way it never used to be. At last, Harry turns towards the door. Louis shakes his head, trying to clear it, and follows.

They walk in silence for several minutes, following the aimless paths that meander through the frosted grass. Louis’ nose is burning with cold by the time Harry finally speaks.

“It’s been weird.”

That’s something Louis can agree on, at least. “Three months,” he says, nodding. “After three years…”

“S’weird.”

Weird, awful, depressing, exhausting, painful… “Yeah,” is all he says.

“How are you doing?” Harry asks. “Really, I mean.”

Louis considers lying, considers brushing it off, but – it’s _Harry_ , and Harry’s the one person he’s never needed to lie to. “Not good,” he says at last. “It’s been… rough.”

Harry’s eyes are concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I haven’t been okay since you left.” It’s blunt, more so than he meant for it to be. He tries to backtrack, to soften the words. “I don’t blame you or anything,” he says, “it’s not your fault. You have to put yourself first. I know you’re better off without me. I’ll manage.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Oh,” is all he says.

“You’re doing okay?” Louis asks, and a selfish part of him wants Harry to say no, wants him to say that he’s hurting as much as Louis is. Wants him to say that they should try again. He knows it won’t happen and yet he still hopes, and-

“I’m okay,” Harry says.

Louis swallows. “That’s good.”

Harry nods. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says, after a full minute of silence. “I guess… I just want to understand what happened.”

Louis shrugs. “Life happened. People break up.” His throat feels like it’s closing in, trying to suffocate him.

Harry steps in front of him, forcing Louis to stop and look up at him. “I know that people break up sometimes,” he says. “I want to know why _we_ did.” A frown traces lines in his forehead. Louis wants to reach out and smooth them away. He shoves his hand deeper into his pocket.

“What do you mean?” Louis says. “You started talking about marriage, I said it wasn’t going to happen. We fought. You left. Is there more to know?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “For starters – why?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Do you not remember when we first got together?” he says. “Heck, when we first met? I’m not a settling down kind of guy.”

“That was three years ago,” Harry says. “More, even. Why not?”

“I don’t believe in marriage,” Louis says shortly. He’s seen too much to be that optimistic, that naïve. “I l-” He chokes on the words, admitting that he’s still in love too true and too painful and too unhelpful to say aloud. He coughs and changes the direction of his sentence. “You mean a lot to me”-everything more like-“but I don’t ever want to get married. If that’s what you’re looking for in life, then I guess I’m just not the right person for you.”

Harry sighs. “It isn’t-” He stops, sighs again. Louis says nothing. He tries not to watch as Harry runs a hand through his hair, long strands tumbling out of the way. Tries not to remember playing with that hair, braiding it, pulling it. He mostly fails.

“I’m sorry I threw the wineglass,” Louis says instead. “I was – hurt.”

“I’m sorry I called you a coward and a stubborn pig,” Harry says. He smiles, but there is no joy in it. “I guess we both could have handled things better.”

The only reason the words had hurt was because they were true. He was a coward. But that wasn’t going to change.

“Was there something else?” Louis asks, his eyes watering. He blames the cold. He’s a good liar.

Harry is quiet for a moment. “I guess,” he says slowly, “I’m just wondering where we go from here.”

Louis glances at him. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Harry shrugs. “Do we keep avoiding each other like the plague? Or – I mean, before we were dating, we were friends.”

“We were,” Louis says. “We were… friends.” The words sound foreign. They hadn’t been friends in so long that he can barely remember that time – or rather, they’d been so much more than friends. But they’d always been friends first. He has to admit, he’s missed that. But he doesn’t know if he can do just friends, not when there’s so much history. Not when he wants so much more.

“I’d like to be friends,” Harry says quietly. “If we can.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. He swallows hard, trying to form his thoughts into words but they scatter before him like waterstriders,

“I’ve missed you,” Harry adds after a moment.

Louis starts, looking up at him. “What?”

Harry’s smile is a fraction more real this time. “You’ve been a part of my life for more than four years,” he says. “Is it really so surprising that it feels strange to not have you in it?”

“No,” Louis says slowly. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” He swallows again. “I’ve missed you too.”

They start walking again. Louis isn’t really sure which of them moved first, and maybe it was both of them, always in synch, always reading each other’s movements without quite realizing it.

“So,” Harry says after a long moment. “Friends?”

Louis’ heart aches, but he knows that this is the best he can hope for. He can’t have Harry, they just aren’t compatible and Harry deserves someone who will love him the way he wants and needs. But if he can’t have all of him – he’d rather have a little than none at all, even if that little bit will remind him of everything he doesn’t have.

He nods. “Friends,” he says.

~*~*~

It’s strange. Nothing has changed, and yet everything is different. Every day still hurts, every memory and every thought, but the pain is a different shape. It’s no longer all-consuming, drowning out everything else around it until it’s the only thing he can think about. It’s still there, but as a sharp clarity, a crystallized focus instead of a throbbing ache. He can think again.

In fact, he can’t stop. All he can think about is Harry, is how much he misses him and how much he wants him back. He tries to ignore it, to push it away, but it keeps floating back to the surface when he drops his guard.

The realization comes on so gradually, and then hits him like a freight train as he’s falling asleep. He sits straight up in bed, the single thought pounding through his head.

He’s afraid. Well, that’s not new, he knew that already. But only in that foggy, in-between state that comes right before you fall asleep did he realize the implications.

He isn’t afraid of spending forever with Harry. He’s afraid he won’t get to.

And he’s afraid of that possibility because he _wants_ to spend forever with Harry.

And isn’t that what marriage is? Wanting to be with someone forever, in sickness and in health and all that? He wants to wake up next to Harry every day for the rest of his life, wants to hear his stupid knock knock jokes and see his bad hair days and taste his morning breath. He wants to support him when he’s in pain and celebrate with him when he’s happy. He wants it all, for better or for worse, forever.

Marriage is just promising exactly that, promising everything he already wants.

“I’m such an idiot,” he breathes.

And it’s worse than that, really. He’d been so afraid of marriage, or commitment, so sure that it was impossible that he’d made it impossible. The only reason things had fallen apart was because he’d believed they would.

“I’ll fix it,” he mutters, climbing out of bed. “I’ll fix it, somehow…”

He’s digging for his clothes, fumbling for his phone and his wallet, plan half-formed in the back of his head. It’s only when he accidentally hit the button of his phone that he realizes the sheer ridiculousness of what he’s doing.

It’s 3:14am, the phone’s screen informs him. It’s 3:14am and he has some half-mad, sleep-deprivation induced notion of going out and buying a ring _right now_ and then going straight to Harry’s house. The shops will all be closed. Harry will be asleep.

Louis sits down on the bed. So. That plan is clearly stupid. But. He can find another one. He can do this. He can tell Harry that he was wrong, that he still loves him, that he’ll marry him. He can get him back.

Unless-

Unless Harry has moved on. It’s been three months, after all, and Louis saw him with that girl in the supermarket, and he’d said he was okay – more okay than Louis, at any rate. He’d wanted to be friends. Maybe he didn’t want anything else anymore.

Louis shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. Well, it matters, but it doesn’t change anything – he still has to _try,_ has to know for sure if he can fix what they’d broken. If Harry says no…

If Harry says no, it will destroy him all over again. But that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

“I’m going to try,” he says into the silence of the night. The words seem to echo around him, ringing in his ears as he lies back down. “I’m going to get him back.”

His mind is whirring with plans, and it takes him a long time to fall asleep. When he does, he dreams of mistletoe.

~*~*~

He’s not prepared when he sees him. He should be, he should have expected this, but he didn’t. He’s taking off his boots in the entryway of Niall’s flat, his feet soaked through with the slush that optimistic people call Christmas snow and normal people call disgusting. He’s just managed to wrestle off the second boot and is trying to decide whether to peel off his socks as well when he hears the laugh carrying above the general hubbub of conversation. He glances up involuntarily, and there he is, standing between Lou Teasdale and Sandy Beales.

He sits down on the boot bin as he peels off the sodden socks with trembling fingers. Harry is friends with Niall, of course. It makes perfect sense that he would be here.

“Louis!” As if Louis’ thoughts had summoned him (though realistically it was probably just the sound of the door – though Louis isn’t sure how he could have heard it above the cacophony of voices), Niall appears in the entryway, beaming as he pulls Louis up into a tight hug. “Happy New Year, Lou!” he says. “And happy birthday!”

“You’re three hours early on the one and a week late on the other,” Louis points out, but Niall just laughs.

“Good to see you too,” he says. “Booze is in the kitchen, snacks are in the living room. Help yourself to whatever.”

He’s about to wander off again to rejoin the crowd, but Louis’ grabs him by the arm. “Wait.”

Niall turns back. “What is it?”

Louis sighs, nibbling at his bottom lip. “You could have warned me,” he says after a moment.

Niall frowns. “Warned you about what?” he asks. Louis nods towards the living room and Niall glances back. Surprise registers on his face. “I thought I did,” he says. “I could have sworn – is it, like, a problem? Will you be-“

“It’s fine,” Louis cuts him off. “We’re – it’s fine. Just startled me, is all.”

Niall’s expression is contrite. “I swear I meant to tell you,” he says. “It must have slipped my mind – I’ve been so busy-”

“It’s fine,” Louis repeats. “We’re – we’re okay. Might even talk to each other.”

It’s meant as a joke, but Niall looks thunderstruck by the possibility, and then elated.

Louis frowns. “That doesn’t mean anything, Niall,” he warns.

“But you’re on good terms?”

“We’re friends,” Louis says, an oddly wistful note creeping into his voice. “We were friends before, we were friends during, and we’re going to try to be friends after.”

Niall studies him for a moment, and Louis can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. “That’s good,” he says at last, and Louis breathes a sigh of relief. “I think it’ll be good for both of you, yeah?”

“I hope so,” Louis says.

A moment later, Niall has disappeared, leaving Louis alone with his thoughts again.

So. He and Harry are both at Niall’s party. And for all that he told Niall that it didn’t mean anything, a small, traitorous part of him is desperately hoping that maybe it will. That maybe a little holiday magic will help him to glue back together the shattered fragments of their relationship. He can only pray that it isn’t too broken to fix, that there’s something left to salvage at all.

It’s awkward, and yet so comfortable. They keep bumping into each other, in the living room, Louis grabbing a handful of pretzels to nibble, or outside the loo, Harry walking out as Louis waits for a turn, or in conversations with the hundred-odd people Niall has somehow managed to squeeze into the tiny flat. They always did fall together; their friends called it creepy but Louis just felt like it was natural, as natural as gravity. And that gravity still seems to be working.

But every time they fall together, they fall apart again, exchanging only a few quick words before they’re distracted by something or someone else. It’s maddening, Louis thinks, infuriating in a way that maybe it shouldn’t be, but the half-connections are somehow more frustrating than all or nothing would be.

It’s about a half an hour to midnight when the crowd begins to weigh on Louis, and he slips away for a breath of air on Niall’s balcony. There are fairy lights hung from several balconies on the opposite buildings, and draped through the trees along the street, giving the night an almost ethereal quality. It’s chilly, his feet bare and no coat, but the cool night air tastes sweet and fresh, and it wakes him up. He wishes he had a cigarette – an old habit and a bad one, he knows, but even though he quit nearly two years ago, he still craves it from time to time.

He hasn’t been out there for more than a few minutes when he hears the balcony door slide open, someone walking out behind him. He doesn’t look away from the lights, just watches out of the corner of his eye as the familiar silhouette leans against the railing a few feet away, the light from inside brushing along the edges of his features.

Neither of them speaks for a long moment. Louis isn’t quite sure what to say, and he’s a little bit afraid that if he opens his mouth, the first words to tumble out of it will be begging Harry to take him back. Which he wants, but he wants to do it right. He wants to earn it.

“Hey,” Harry says at last, and Louis jumps in spite of himself.

“Hey,” he says. The silence returns for several long seconds before he adds, “I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”

“Haven’t missed a New Year’s yet,” Harry says.

Louis nods in agreement. “I probably should have realized,” he says. “Just didn’t think of it. Caught me a little off guard. It’s good to see you, though.”

Harry’s smile is small and faint, but it’s there. “It’s good to see you too.”

Louis shifts his weight from one frozen foot to the other. “How’s Gemma?” he asks.

“Gemma?” Harry seems surprised. “She’s good.”

“She’s liking the new job?”

“Yes,” he says. “I think it suits her. She always did have a lot of opinions.”

They both laugh, their breath fogging in the air, and Louis instinctively moves closer to Harry. He almost moves back when he realizes, but then he notices that Harry had done the same thing. He glances up at him, and Harry smiles a bit sheepishly.

“Old habits,” he says, but doesn’t move away.

Louis takes a deep breath. This is the best opportunity he’s likely to get, and he’s so terrified he can barely breathe but god damn it he’s going to do this. The alcohol he’s consumed gives him a spark of extra courage, but he’s far from drunk, has been all night.

“About that,” he says. “I’ve been thinking.”

Harry tilts his head to one side. “About what?”

“About, like.” He’s nervous, his mouth dry and his palms sweaty despite the December chill. “About us.”

Harry looks surprised, but not displeased. His gaze is steady, meeting Louis’ eyes, but his face betrays nothing. Louis isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

He wipes his hands on his jeans. “I did some thinking after we talked,” he starts, “and I realized a few things.”

Again, Harry says nothing. Louis decides to take the plunge.

“I was a coward,” he says, and Harry reacts to that, a frown pulling his eyebrows together.

“You weren’t-”

“I _was_ ,” Louis interrupts. “I was scared shitless. I always was. When I realized I was in love with you, I literally started bawling. Ask Niall. I was _terrified_.”

“But…” Harry seems shocked. “Why?”

Louis swallows hard. “Because my mother loved my father,” he says. “She loved him with everything she had. And then she lost it all.”

“Louis-”

“And then she met my stepdad,” he continues, speaking over Harry, “and she hoped again, she loved again, and then-”

“It all came crashing down again.”

Louis nods. “All around me, all I could see were broken relationships, broken homes, broken families. Niall’s parents are divorced, Andy’s parents – heck your parents. Sometimes I feel like I know more people whose parents are divorced than together. I learned that nothing lasts forever, that it was stupid to believe otherwise. So I never tried for it. One night stands, friends with benefits, anything but feelings. If there were no feelings it couldn’t hurt.” He pauses. “And then…”

“Me?”

Louis smiles, his eyes watering. “You,” he repeats. “You flipped my world upside down, and Harry, it scared the _shit_ outta me. I wasn’t – I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know _how_ to do it, I didn’t know how to _feel_ that. You changed everything.”

“Sorry.” Harry’s voice is light and teasing but his eyes are nervous. A joke but not a joke.

Louis shakes his head. “I’m not sorry,” he says. “It was a good change, and I loved every second of it. But, like. Even when everything was perfect, there was this tiny voice in my head telling me that it was temporary. That every ‘I love you’ was counting down to the inevitable moment where we would hate each other. And whenever we fought, there was a part of me that was sure that this time, this time would be the time that it would all break down. This would be the time where you would walk out the door and never come back.”

“Oh, Louis,” Harry breathes, his eyes wide. “I had no idea-”

“It’s not your fault,” Louis says, cutting him off. “You have to know – it’s not that you did anything wrong. It’s just that I couldn’t believe that this – that _we_ – could be the exception. And when you finally did leave…” He shrugs. “It was exactly what I always expected. I was surprised, but I wasn’t surprised.”

“But I didn’t-”

“I know, babe.” Louis’ hand lifts of its own accord, tracing along Harry’s cheek, soft but with just a hint of stubble. “I know. It was all in my head, is the thing. I was scared and I was convinced that it couldn’t last. But I don’t want to be anymore.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve missed you,” he says. “I’ve missed you more than you can possibly imagine.”

“I doubt that,” Harry says, and his laugh is quiet but it’s quite possibly the best sound Louis has ever heard.

Louis laughs too. “Maybe not,” he admits. “But Harry, I don’t want to miss you anymore. So I’ll do it. That’s what I wanted to say. If it’s what you want, I’ll marry you.”

“Is this your idea of a proposal?” Harry asks, his eyes sparkling. “I don’t see a ring.”

“Shut up,” Louis says, smacking his arm softly. “I mean it. I’ll propose to you with a bloody grass ring if that’s what it takes.”

“We’re on a third storey balcony.”

“You’re not _helping_ ,” Louis says, half-laughing, half-crying. “I mean it. I’ll marry you.”

And Harry – Harry shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You won’t.”

Louis’ face falls. “Oh,” he says, his voice quiet like the falling snow. “I thought – if there’s someone else – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No,” Harry interrupts. “That’s not what I meant. I want to marry you, Louis, I absolutely want to. But you’re not ready.”

“I _am_.”

“You’re _not,_ ” Harry says. “And if you’re not ready it won’t work. I want it to work.”

“But-”

“Promise me,” Harry says, cutting him off. “Promise me you won’t propose for… a year.”

“A year?” Louis says. “That’s too long.”

“Six months, then,” Harry amends. “If in six months, you’re still sure you’re ready – then you can propose. But you have to be sure that’s what you want.”

Louis looks at him, baffled. “Why?” he says. “If it’s what you want, and I want to give you what you want-”

“Because that shouldn’t be why,” Harry says, gripping his hand. “Because marriage – because a _relationship_ – is about both people. It’s about compromising. It’s about both people helping each other, supporting each other, listening to each other and understanding each other.” He shakes his head. “I had no idea… I mean, I knew you didn’t want marriage. I knew your mother had been divorced. But I didn’t realize… God, Louis, why didn’t you tell me?”

The question pulls him up short. Why hadn’t he told Harry? He’d told him everything else, more or less. How had this escaped?

“I guess it just never seemed to matter,” Louis says slowly. “It had never mattered in my previous relationships, with El or Aiden or Hannah.”

“Those were different, though,” Harry says. “You told me that.”

“They were,” Louis agrees. “But they were what I had to go on. They were what I knew. I guess I just never changed that.” He shrugs.

Harry looks at him for a long moment. “Don’t do it again,” he says. “Don’t keep things from me, don’t not tell me when you’re scared, or when I’m pushing too hard.”

“You weren’t-”

“I was,” Harry says. “I just didn’t know it. Next time – tell me. I don’t care what it is. Don’t let it go this far.” He squeezes Louis’ hands in his own. “I don’t want to lose you over something so preventable.”

Louis looks away, tears stinging his eyes. He doesn’t deserve Harry; he’s too fucking good for him, absolutely perfect.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, startling a laugh out of Harry.

“You’re perfect-er,” Harry says.

“That’s not even a word.”

“Oh shut up.”

The smile on Harry’s face is the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen. He holds completely still as Harry lifts a hand to his face, running his fingers along Louis’ cheek. Harry’s voice is quiet in the stillness of the night. “You have no idea how hard I’m having to resist kissing you.”

Louis’ stomach swoops. “Then don’t,” he says, rising up on tiptoe. “Don’t.”

His mouth is just centimetres from Harry’s when he hears the soft, “Stop,” and he doesn’t want to stop but if Harry wants him to –

“What is it?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I just…” Harry swallows. “This isn’t – you’re sober, yeah?”

Louis almost laughs, but Harry’s voice is tight with worry. He cups a hand around Harry’s cheek, wondering how in the world he managed to live without this for three _months_. “I’m serious,” he says, the fog of his breath ghosting across Harry’s mouth like a phantom kiss. “I’m a bit buzzed, but I’ve been thinking about this since we talked. I want this – want _you_.”

He can feel Harry’s shiver, and it could be from the cold but the fire in Harry’s eyes says it’s from a very different sensation.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Harry murmurs, his fingertips tracing patterns on Louis’ arms. “God, Lou, you have no idea-”

“Kiss me,” Louis says, cutting him off. “Please, just kiss me or I swear-”

He doesn’t even have to finish the threat (which is good, because he didn’t have any idea what to finish it with) before Harry’s mouth is on his and heat surges through his veins. He wraps his arms around Harry, digging his fingers into Harry’s back in a way that will probably leave scratches, but the way Harry is whimpering into Louis’ mouth says he doesn’t care in the least.

For his own part, Harry’s hands are tangled in Louis’ hair, tugging gently, angling his head for better access which Louis’ willingly grants. One hand releases, catching hold of Louis’ shirt a moment later, pulling him closer than close until there is nothing between them but the thin fabric of their shirts.

And his mouth – _God_ , his mouth – Harry’s lips are a symphony of perfection against Louis’. He tastes like Doritos, and Louis has never particularly like Doritos but he thinks this might change his mind. Every movement of his lips is an angelic choir in Louis’ mind; every brush of his tongue a trumpeting fanfare. Whenever he pulls away, even for a moment to adjust the angle, Louis is already leaning forward before his mouth returns.

The sound of cheers, party blowers, and off-key singing finally breaks them out of their trance.

“I think we missed the New Year,” Louis whispers, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on Harry’s hips.

Harry’s laugh is low and quiet and rumbling and Louis is so fucking in love with him. “I can’t think of a better way to ring it in,” he says, and at that Louis just has to kiss him again, and again, and again.

When the balcony door slides open, it takes them a moment to look up. Niall is beaming at them from the doorway, hands on his hips.

“I wondered where you two had gotten to,” he says. “And congrats. It’s good to see you two happy again.”

Louis’ glances at Harry, who does indeed look ridiculously happy. Louis is sure his own face bears a grin of similarly goofy proportions, but he honestly couldn’t care less. He lifts a tentative hand to trace along Harry’s jawbone, still half-afraid that this will all be a dream.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”

Harry’s eyes are damp as he leans down to connect their mouths again, and Louis willingly breathes him in.

“As glad as I am to see this,” Niall says, making them pull apart again, “I was actually here to see a different kind of fireworks.”

He points past them, and Louis turns to see brightly coloured explosions flaring in the sky – small with distance, but beautiful all the same. He leans against Harry, his arm tight around Harry’s waist. Harry’s arm is wrapped solidly around Louis’ shoulders, and Louis never wants him to let go. The firmness of Harry’s grip suggests he feels the same.

“You can see the fireworks from here,” Niall calls in through the still-open balcony door. “Come see, fellas.” A moment later there are several dozen people crowding onto the balcony or hovering around the door. Louis is pushed closer into Harry’s side, which he doesn’t mind in the least. He smiles up at Harry, whose return smile is so bright and so beautiful that Louis doesn’t know why the whole street isn’t illuminated by it.

“It’s beautiful,” someone says quietly.

Louis touches Harry’s chest with one hand, fingers resting just above his heart. “Yes,” he whispers. “It is.”

~*~*~

At first, Louis insists that he’s going to propose as soon as the six months are up. Harry smiles and doesn’t argue. But somewhere around the fourth month, Louis realizes that when he thinks of proposing, it’s with a certain amount of dread. When they fight, which isn’t often but does happen at times, Louis realizes that there’s still a part of him that expects Harry to declare that this is the final straw, that he can’t do it anymore. And when the six-month mark finally comes around, he knows he isn’t ready.

“You were right,” he whispers to Harry late one night. “I was almost too proud to admit it, but you were right. Thank you.”

“I love you,” is all Harry says. “I know that and you know that and until you’re ready, that’s enough for me. We don’t need a piece of paper to prove it. We just need each other.”

At six months, Louis isn’t ready, and at a year, he isn’t ready. But after sixteen months, he’s getting there. When they argue, he no longer thinks, “He’s going to leave me this time,” but instead thinks, “How can we work through this together?” When their friends talk about forever, he no longer thinks, “How unrealistic,” but instead thinks, “It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it.” When they go to Gemma’s wedding, he doesn’t think, “This is a bad idea,” but instead thinks, “I can’t wait for ours.”

And that’s when he knows.

At the end of June, he takes Harry on holiday to Montreal. Neither of them can speak more than a sentence or two of French, but fortunately most of the people they meet speak passable English. Harry insists on trying to learn bits and pieces anyway – “We’re the ones visiting them, Louis,” he explains. “We should accommodate them, not the other way around.”

“We’re paying them,” Louis points out with a laugh. “And my name may be French, nothing else about me is – you saw how that baker winced when I tried to order a croissant.”

Harry laughs too. “Your accent is atrocious,” he teases.

“At least I know more than ‘Je suis allé au cinéma avec mes copains et ma famille,’” Louis retorts, but he’s smiling. He usually is around Harry.

They visit the botanical gardens and the Biodome, explore the wax museum (Louis insists that Madame Tussauds is better out of sheer patriotism, and Harry is laughing too hard to argue), and go on a guided tour of Old Montreal. They even golf – Louis does terribly, but they both have fun.

On July 1st, they go to see the Canada Day fireworks. Rather than brave the crowds near the show proper, they drive up to the top of Mont Royal, where they have a view of the entire city. There are still people, but they’re fewer and farther between, and then they walk until they’ve left even those behind.

Louis lays out a blanket on the damp ground, and they sit together, arms around each other, as the first fireworks burst into colour.

It’s a glorious display, full of brilliant starbursts of red and white. When it finally ends, they stay motionless for several long moments. Louis’ heart is beating wildly, but it isn’t fear anymore. It’s excitement.

When Harry starts to stand, Louis tugs him back down.

“What is it?” Harry asks, his voice almost swallowed by the night.

Louis smiles. “I’m ready,” he says.

Harry frowns. “Ready for what?”

And finally, there on the darkened hill, under stars and smoke, Louis proposes.

(Harry says yes)


End file.
